


Lift

by LavenderProse



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle of Five Armies, Five Plus One, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderProse/pseuds/LavenderProse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times a member of the Company had to carry Bilbo, and one time Bilbo had to carry a member of the Company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lift

**One: Bofur**

* * *

These were the facts, agreed upon by all parties and disputed by none:

One: Hobbits were small creatures. It might even be said that they were  _absurdly_  small creatures, but considering the fact that 'absurd'  _was_  a word disputed by one certain party of the aforementioned race, the word 'absurd' was not brought into the proceedings. At least within the Halfling's range of hearing.

Two: Bilbo Baggins was a particularly small specimen of Hobbit. Not only was he short—shorter than Ori, even, and that was remarkable because Ori was both barely of age and short  _for_  his age—but also light. Among hobbit standards, they were well informed, the esteemed Mister Baggins was actually a quite hearty fellow, but among dwarfs, whom where they did not have fat had muscle, he was tiny indeed.

Three: Because Mister Baggins was so very slight, it was no problem at all for a particularly swift river current to sweep their burglar away, or a strong wind to send him toppling. There was a reason Hobbits inhabited the Shire, with its mild weather patterns and shallow waters.

Four: It would not do for the Company of Thorin II Oakensheild to lose their burglar to an angry river or overzealous wind.

Five: Dwarves were strong, and a small hobbit was no burden at all for warriors who had spent most of their lives with heaps of metal on their backs in the form of weapons.

So it was decided that, when it was perilous for their burglar to commute of his own devices, he would be carried. Considering the terrain of the path they were following was in no way meant for little people with no shoes, this was incredibly often. The dwarves were not disgruntled by it, not really—after all, they'd come to have a bit of a fondness for the hobbit, and the decree had been given by Thorin himself. Bilbo himself did not have a problem with it, although it had taken some getting used to that he spent at least one out of five days on their journey slung across the back or in the arms of a dwarf.

The first dwarf to take on the task was Bofur, who was only too happy to lift Bilbo onto his back when he sprained his ankle. (This, of course, was before they even reached Rivendell, and their trials had barely begun, so nobody really anticipated the continued necessity. After all, the dwarves had never traveled with a hobbit, and the hobbit had certainly never traveled with dwarves.) The little hobbits had always called this particular maneuver a 'piggy back ride,' although exactly what the connection to swine was, Bilbo was unsure. He told Bofur as much, and the dwarf was tickled to no end, especially because among dwarves it was known as a 'lame man's carry.'

It was more literal, but far less appealing of a name. If that was what these dwarves called a piggyback ride, he did not want to know what they called a bridal hold, or an over-the-shoulder sling.

"Are you sure I'm not troubling you?" Bilbo inquired fretfully, several times when he realized they were on a rather steep incline or a particularly rocky path. It seemed like it would be hard to find your footing, especially with another body to heave along with you.

"I'm quite sure, Mister Baggins," Bofur chuckled, and how the man never managed to lose his sense of humor was baffling to Bilbo. He himself had lost his own somewhere around day three, and he had a feeling many of the other dwarves had as well. If, in fact, some of them had ever had one in the first place…

"Just hold on tightly," Bofur said, "and you'll be no trouble at all. You're no more heavy than some of the rucksacks I've carried over the years."

These words triggered a bit of chagrin in Bilbo (Young hobbits learned at a young age that 'You're heavy!' was always a compliment, unless the word  _too_  was stuck in the middle) and, although Bofur had no way of knowing that, he was quite silent for a long time.

However, the next day his ankle  _did_  feel much better than it would have had he been forced to walk on it the entire previous day, and so he couldn't help but feel grateful to Bofur.

* * *

**Two: Dwalin**

* * *

It soon became apparent, however, that Bilbo would need to be carried far more often than the times he happened to be afflicted by the occasional sprain ankle. There was quite a lot of marsh land between the Shire and Rivendell, and it was relatively easy to go over if one was in thick boots and knew how to differentiate between grass-covered muddy ground and grass-covered muddy water.

Hobbits were distinctly lacking in both requirements. Bilbo found himself stumbling, getting stuck and, at one point, nearly falling completely into the water.

It warranted mentioning that few hobbits could swim, either.

After the fourth time Bilbo fell into another member of the company and almost brought them down too, Thorin boomed from the front, "Burglar! Are you in need of assistance?"

Although he was a bit disgruntled at Thorin's tone, Bilbo picked himself up out of the mud, shooting an apologetic look at Dori, and said, "Well I'm not quite used to this kind of…" He paused, as Thorin nodded at Dwalin, whom almost immediately began to advance.

"Up you go, Mister Baggins," Dwalin grunted, as he picked up Bilbo and, seemingly effortlessly, slung him over his shoulder. Bilbo yelped, Dwalin rumbled out a chuckle, and the rest of the company tittered a bit in amusement. A sweeping glare from Thorin put a stop to the chortles, however, and the company continued.

It took Bilbo nearly thirty minutes to work up the courage, but eventually he mumbled, "Um…Mister Dwalin, this isn't entirely comfortable…"

"Well, laddie," rumbled Dwalin, "The way I see it is this: I'm the one that has to carry you, so I get to decide how  _to_  carry you. Get it?" With that, he hiked Bilbo further up on his shoulder, and Bilbo submitted himself to loosing all of the blood in his body to his head.

Fíli and Kíli, behind him, sniggered. Bilbo pointed at them and snapped, "Watch it!"

"There's room on my other shoulder for one of you lads, if you'd like to join Mister Baggins," Dwalin called, over said unoccupied shoulder, and Fíli and Kíli went exceptionally quiet exceptionally fast. The Company laughed again. Bilbo was starting to realize that this mismatch group calling themselves warriors was actually a rather raggedy band of enormous gossips, capable of rivaling the gammers in the Shire.

Once they'd made camp for the night, once they'd made dry land, Bilbo felt obligated (After performing his assigned duty, which this night was collecting water) to approach Dwalin and, hands shuffling over each other in front of himself, said, "I am grateful, Dwalin. Really I am."

Dwalin barely spared him a glance, distracted as he was with sharpening his axe (It looked quite sharp enough to Bilbo, actually, but Dwalin was fretting earlier about it becoming dull from cutting firewood) but he was obviously listening, because he said, "I know, lad."

Although he wasn't entirely sure why Dwalin insisted on calling him lad—he was aware, of course, that fifty in dwarf years was barely pubescent age, but despite that, surely Dwalin realized he was no young hobbit?—Bilbo took the words at face value, nodded, and started off in the other direction. Only to pause and say a silent curse to his conscience and sense of propriety, then turn around and troop back over to where Dwalin sat. "It's not that I'm resentful, but I just…I wish…" His eyes traveled to Thorin, and he knew what he wanted to say ("I wish our leader would treat me with more respect, as opposed to the party of least consequence.") but could not voice this opinion to a confidant of Thorin.

"It's a bit degrading, for a hobbit such as you, to have to be carried place to place," Dwalin finished for him, and only then did he glance up from his axe. "Am I right?"

Bilbo sighed and sat down, cross-legged, in front of the fire. He stared into it. "Where I come from…In the Shire…I'm what's known as a gentlehobbit. I'm quite wealthy and, um…" He was fully aware that he was not exactly singing his own praises, and it was not a usual concept for him. "Not used to this…lifestyle."

"I hadn't noticed," Dwalin remarked dryly, and Bilbo felt a blush rise in his cheeks. "You don't exactly have the look of someone who's done a lot of hard labor in his life."

This made Bilbo grumble into his collar, but Dwalin only chuckled.

"The point I'm trying to make is, I'm fully aware that I'm not exactly fit for this kind of terrain. But that doesn't  _mean_  that I should be…thought any less of for it. At least, that's what I think.'

The stare that Dwalin fixed on him was piercing, and for a moment Bilbo thought he'd said the wrong thing entirely. Then Dwalin shook his head, although it was not a negative gesture. It felt like the movement should have been accompanied by a tut and a kind, "Bless your heart," but Dwalin was not a hobbit gammer.

"We dwarves do what must be done to help and protect our kin, Master Baggins. When you travel with us, you are considered that." Dwalin set down his axe (Bilbo scooted a bit away from it, because the newly sharpened axe looked far too lethal for his taste) and patted Bilbo's shoulder. "We do anything we can, within reason, to ensure that you will make it to the end of this journey alive and well."

As Dwalin's gaze settled on the middle distance, Bilbo mumbled, "But…Wasn't it Thorin to say that he wouldn't be responsible for my well-being?"

Dwalin sniggered. "For all our fair king is that, he's awfully pigheaded at times. He doesn't like to be told what to do, and coming into the sudden possession of a hobbit," Bilbo emitted a negative sound at the word 'possession', but Dwalin did not acknowledge him, "and told to look after him by Gandalf…well." Dwalin shrugged, as if to say 'you know,' and rose from his seat. Then he slapped Bilbo's shoulder and remarked, "It's his duty as the leader of his company to keep everyone under his charge protected. It just isn't always in a comfortable or dignified way."

He walked off, and Bilbo stared off across camp, where Thorin was sitting with his nephews.

Perhaps his view of Thorin Oakenshield had begun to change.

* * *

**Three: Óin**

* * *

For a medical man (and therefore a scholar) Óin was quite the warrior, and also quite strong for his somewhat advanced age. Not that carrying a hobbit took that much strength, but Bilbo was still surprised when Oin lifted him up, sick and weak with fever as he was, and carried him as the company moved. They were too far from water for Thorin to be comfortable staying there, with a sick member of the company. He was equally as unwilling to send only one or two scouts looking for water (Mostly because it probably would have been Fíli and Kíli) and so the whole company moved.

"Who will carry the Hobbit?" Thorin demanded of the company, standing over Bilbo's feverish body. "He cannot walk on his own."

"What?" Óin asked, and held the wider end of his ear trumpet to Thorin's mouth. "WHAT?"

"I said," Thorin roared into the ear trumpet, " _WHO_  will  _CARRY_  the  _HOBBIT_?"

Óin waved away everyone that stepped forward and, in one fell swoop, took Bilbo into his arms and heaved him up from the ground on which he lay. "It may as well be me," he said, too loudly for Bilbo's taste, but he knew there was no point in asking Óin to be quieter. He couldn't even tell how loud he was being.

"Very well," Thorin said, with a decisive nod. "I don't need to tell you to alert us if his condition worsens."

The only response the king received was a baleful look, and he quickly began moving. Óin and Bilbo started off at the front of the group, but due to Óin's typical slower pace (His knees pained him something awful these days, when it was damp like this) they soon ended up at the back, joined by Bombur and Balin.

Usually Thorin moved slowly enough to allow Balin to walk with him, trusted advisor and companion as he was. It would seem there was too much urgency for that on this day.

"How is the little one?" inquired Balin, leaning close to Bilbo's face. Bilbo groaned and waved him away. "Still in the world of the living, it would seem." When Óin did not respond for quite a while, Balin sighed and said louder, "What is the hobbit's  _condition_ , Óin?"

"It's a mild fever," Óin assured _,_ "But I don't like the idea of taking our chances, especially in weather like this! The rain is probably what gave it to him in the first place." He shifted Bilbo in his arms, making him groan, and chuckled, "Oh, do stop being so melodramatic, Master Baggins!"

Bilbo only groaned again.

It took nearly half a day, but they found water—a stream conveniently located next to an area of dense, low-hanging foliage that sheltered them from the rain. Óin set Bilbo down on an area of soft ground and covered him with blankets as the rest of the company built camp. Every once in a while, someone came by—Bilbo, caught in the throes of fever, barely noticed someone was there, let alone who it was—and checked on him.

At some point, Óin came by and forced something sour down his throat. Bilbo groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, but the medication must have begun working because less than a minute later he was out.

The next morning, he woke up in Óin's arms—apparently the medication made it hard to wake someone, and they had not had the time or energy to expend upon it. But for some reason, he had the vaguest memory of someone kneeling next to him and stroking his hair back from his face, pressing their lips to his forehead to test his temperature like his mother always had, and then pulling the blankets further up to his chin.

He just hoped it hadn't been Óin.

* * *

**Four: Fíli and Kíli**

* * *

It would seem the crown prince of Erebor and his younger brother did not do anything apart. This included tasks assigned to them by their uncle, and Bilbo realized this very early on. However, it was not until well into their journey—past Rivendell, past Goblin Town, deposited on the eastern side of the Misty Mountains by the eagles—that he would come to resent it.

The eagles' job was to help only as much as necessary—that was, to transport Thorin's company out the dangers of Azog's hunting party—but no more than that. So when they found themselves high up on what seemed to be a cliff, and the eagles taking flight in the other direction, the company could only grumble to each other and kick at stones and begin the long journey down the steep steps to solid, level ground.

Unfortunately, no solid, level ground was to be found at the bottom. The cliff turned out to be an island stuck in the middle of the Anduin River. The island, Gandalf informed, was called Carrock, and was in the territory of a friend of his—a man named Beorn who, it was told, could take the shape of an enormous black bear.

"The water here is shallow," Gandalf said, gesturing to the eastern bank of the river. "It should be easily negotiable, even for you dwarves. Once we have crossed, I think Beorn may have the hospitality to put us up for a night…especially considering the injured among us." It was very obvious who Gandalf was staring at, behind the backs of the Company. In deference to their king, the dwarves did not turn to look at Thorin's reaction. Bilbo resisted the urge as well, although it was difficult.

"Come," Gandalf said, stepping into the river, and a few paces in. It came up to his knee, which would be at the dwarves' hips. Not comfortable, but definitely not impossible. "It isn't so far."

It seemed quite a ways away to Bilbo—six hundred paces at least.

"Um," Bilbo said, staring at the churning water. It was deeper than he'd care to think about, actually. It may have only come up to a man's knee, but on a hobbit it would be waist-height. He didn't even want to think how deep it would be further out!

Gandalf, seeming to just realize this himself, said, "Ah, yes. There is the matter of you, Bilbo. The current here is strong and may sweep your feet from under you…"

Bilbo would never know why Gandalf said 'may' at times when he clearly meant 'will.'

"I will carry him," said Thorin from the back, and crept his way forward, slowed by what Bilbo could only hope was only a sprained ankle (It would be just like the stubborn mule to walk on a broken one) and the fact that he stopped every few steps to hold an arm to his stomach and wince. Bilbo suspected broken ribs. The offer would have been comical, because the dwarf was so obviously not in any condition to be lugging  _himself_ through a fast-flowing river, let alone Bilbo. However, even injured and ragged and bloodied, Thorin Oakenshield had a graceful majesty to him that did not encourage laughter or pity.

The memory of the hug from not an hour ago was still strong in Bilbo's mind, as was the new warmth that Thorin gazed upon him with—but that did not mean that he was going to let Thorin hurt himself further just to prove his changed opinion.

"No you will not," Bilbo said, not unkindly. If several of the company's eyebrows were raised at the sight of a hobbit giving their leader and king orders, Bilbo paid them no mind.

However, every eyebrow raised—including Gandalf's large, grey, bushy ones—when Thorin acquiesced with only a huff and a nod. He leaned gratefully onto the support of Dwalin who, it was obvious, would be helping Thorin across the river.

Yes, definitely in no condition to be carrying Bilbo anywhere.

Fíli and Kíli were delighted by this new development. After making sure their uncle would not have a retort for the smallest member of the company, they advanced quickly and said, "We'll carry you, Mister Baggins!" before lifting him off the ground, quite without Bilbo's consent.

"Um, boys, I don't think—"

"Well we  _do,_  Mister Baggins!" Kíli replied genially, and he and his brother lugged Bilbo straight into the water, arms looped under his armpits. It wasn't comfortable, but the boys meant well—it was, perhaps, a bit too much to ask for any one dwarf to carry him when they were all tired, injured, and trying to make their way across a rather turbulent river, for all it was seemingly shallow. At least the boys were spry, and managed to get across the river with relatively little trouble.

They set him on the opposite bank, and then actually waded back in to help their uncle, taking the task away from a grateful Dwalin. Their selflessness finally his Bilbo, in a strong rush that took his breath away. They were gruff and unsocial and knuckleheaded, but they were all utterly devoted to each other. It was surprising, for a race of people so jilted. It had always seemed logical to Bilbo that they wouldn't trust easily, and prefer to look out for themselves.

Perhaps they did. Perhaps they didn't trust easily. But it was obvious now that family bonds were strong and it wasn't unusual—expected, even—for dwarves to give their lives for their kin.

Fíli and Kíli dropped their uncle beside Bilbo and yet again ran back into the water, this time to Balin, who was struggling to make his way across. Bilbo switched between watching the boys and glancing at Thorin.

Finally, he said, "I don't know how old Fíli and Kíli would be in hobbit years…but they're not of age, are they?"

Thorin shook his head. "Dwarves come of age at ninety. Fíli is eighty-two…and Kíli is seventy-seven."

Bilbo nodded and tried not to say what he was thinking—that they were too young, mere babies even though they'd seen much more life than him. Instead he mumbled, "And you?"

Chuckling, Thorin glanced at him and said, "Isn't there something in your culture about not asking a person their age?"

"Only the lasses." Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at Thorin. "Why? Is there one in yours?"

"No." Thorin watched his nephews, and Bilbo thought he wasn't going to answer. Then, "One-hundred eighty."

Bilbo did the math. "You were younger than both of them when Smaug took the mountain."

"Seventy. Barely."

The rest of the company dragged themselves ashore, and sat drying on the bank as the light-footed Gandalf made his way into the forest and disappeared. Thorin became involved in a conversation with his nephews, and Bofur came over to engage Bilbo, and the conversation topic was dropped. Shortly thereafter, Gandalf arrived and informed them that Boern had agreed to put them up, and they all rose and trekked to the shapeshifter's home.

* * *

**Five: Thorin**

* * *

They were all bandaged up and fed up. The dwarves leaned back, nursing pipes and rubbing full bellies. Their armor had been abandoned in favor of plain tunics and breeches. They were clean and mended and perhaps worse for wear, but it was a version of the dwarves Bilbo had never seen before, even in Rivendell. It seemed that the dwarves had not trusted the elves quite enough to surrender all armor and over clothing. But it was summer now, and quite hot, and no one wanted to wear more than they had to.

Bilbo was in shirtsleeves and breeches, and puffing on his own pipe. He was away from the company, only for a bite of peace. In a moment he had a mind to slip into the conversation Bombur and Balin were having, but not for a while. For a moment he wanted to enjoy the feeling of sanctuary he had from being somewhere safe.

The large hall had been divided by a red curtain hung from the ceiling, hung after dinner whilst the dwarves relaxed in the common area. Beyond the curtain, the individual sleeping quarters had been sectioned off by more curtains. They had been provided with pillows and blankets and a straw mattress each.

A clearing throat was the only warning Bilbo had before he was joined on the floor by Thorin, who leaned against the same wall as him and murmured, "You seem content. Before now I wasn't sure you could relax. You've been so…tensed. All the time."

"I could say the same of you," Bilbo mumbled.

Thorin chuckled. "Yes. This is true."

This too was true: Thorin had changed since the eagles had set them on Carrock. Perhaps even when Bilbo had thrown himself in front of Azog. In fact, most definitely when Bilbo had thrown himself in front of Azog.

"It's nothing against you personally," Bilbo said. "Except, well…it is. I've spent the last few months thinking you didn't…that you hated me, quite honestly. I couldn't really understand why. I knew that you were resentful of Gandalf for bringing me along but I never knew quite why you blamed me for being brought along, when it was through no choice of mine that I was recruited for this quest." Having said his part—and gotten quite a lot off his chest, for all he'd only spoken for a minute or so—Bilbo deflated and quietly pulled on his pipe.

The other dwarves had become aware of their conversation, although they had the grace not to make it obvious. It was from their subtle glances and suddenly quieter conversation that Bilbo made the realization. They were trying to listen in.

"I'm naturally untrusting," Thorin said, without preamble.

"I can tell."

Thorin sighed loudly, sounding a bit irritated, and Bilbo quieted.

"You can probably assume the reason," Thorin mumbled. Bilbo nodded. "I didn't think you would be…" He sighed, and stared down at the floor in an attempt to gather his thoughts. "I chose these twelve dwarves because of their loyalty to me and to Erebor, which has been proven time and time again. Many of them are direct and distant relations. Some of them have never even been to the city, but I don't doubt their devotion to it, and to our quest. You, on the other hand…"

Bilbo nodded. "I'm a hobbit. I don't know what it's like to go without home, or to lose my home to an evil force. I know nothing of hardship and I have no reason to be loyal to you, your kin, or your people. I'm an outsider and not to be trusted." He did not say it with chagrin; it was a fact. An obvious fact, at this point.

"Yes," Thorin said, not without reluctance. "But, as I said when we were atop Carrock…I was wrong. Your loyalty was proven to me, and I regret ever doubting you." Thorin squeezed his shoulder. "I trust you, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire."

Not knowing what to do with his own hand, Bilbo hesitantly set his hand on Thorin's arm. He stared at his hand, small and barely big enough to wrap halfway around Thorin's thick bicep, and then at Thorin's massive paw which enveloped his entire shoulder. He whispered, "You would die for each other. All of you. You would toss yourself in front of an arrow to save your kinsmen."

Thorin nodded. "Yes."

"Oh," Bilbo breathed out, in a shaky whisper. He sat back, and stared at the ceiling, and decided that for once in his life he was going to do something reckless and not think about the consequences. That he was going to do what was  _right_ , not what was safe, and consequences be damned. Slowly, he said, "Well then…I guess I will too."

Without replying, Thorin rose and walked across the hall to the curtains, and disappeared behind them. The company's conversation all but halted, as they watched their leader walk off in a seeming huff. Almost at once, they glanced at him, glanced back at the curtain, and quickly turned back to their conversations. Bilbo felt terribly awkward.

What had he said?

This angered him, and he decided that he was getting terribly tired of Thorin's uncommunicative ways. He claimed he trusted Bilbo now, and it was time to prove it. So Bilbo got up and walked purposefully across the hall, determinedly not making eye contact with any one dwarf, until he got to the curtain and pulled it aside.

It was dark, as the curtains blocked the light coming in from the high windows in Beorn's hall. Bilbo glanced around, because Thorin was suddenly nowhere to be seen.

Then he was grabbed, not gently but not harshly, by the wrist and turned around. There was Thorin, looking somewhat threatening with his eyebrows drawn down against the backdrop of the long red curtain. They were surrounded, closed in on all sides by curtains. It was intimate. Too close. Bilbo opened his mouth to inquire and closed it when Thorin spoke.

"I have a confession," whispered Thorin.

"Yes."

"I'm fascinated by you," Thorin murmured. He drew close and Bilbo closed his eyes, felt Thorin's breath on his neck. "You are small yet powerful…simple yet intelligent…soft yet masculine. I know you are scared, and yet you've proven yourself incredibly brave. You are contradiction itself, Bilbo Baggins."

Bilbo opened his mouth to say something that made sense but all that came out was, "Ugh."

"I'm attracted to you."

"Yes," Bilbo breathed.

Bilbo found himself lifted off the ground. He yipped—possibly loud enough for the other dwarves to hear—and asked, "What are you doing? Where are you taking me?" as he clung to Thorin's front, flustered and confused and terribly, terribly the  _Valor,_ he was so aroused.

"Bed," Thorin replied, as he shouldered his way past curtains. "I'm taking you to bed."

"I—what—you're…Oh, for goodness' sake,  _fine_! Yes, take me!" And he wrapped his arms around Thorin's head and put his lips to the King Under the Mountain's whilst every single inch of his body screamed  _yes yes yes_  and Thorin carried him through curtains and over blankets and pillows and finally set him on the floor, on a straw mattress.

* * *

**Plus one: Bilbo**

* * *

He would never know how he gathered the strength to do it. He was broken, mentally and physically. Injured, bruised, scared, hopeless. Yet when he saw Thorin, Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, fall under the blow of the pale orc, he knew what he had to do. Bolg, son of Azog who Thorin had recently slain, raised his mace to inflict a fatal blow, and Bilbo hurtled towards the prone dwarf and the murderous orc.

From the other direction, Fíli and Kíli advanced as well. Bilbo was closer. Bilbo was closer and he knew the boys would throw themselves in front of Bolg's mace for the life of their uncle and they had too much  _life_  in front of them, too much damned  _life_  for him to let them do that.

Half-crazed, incensed, frantic and terrified, Bilbo launched himself into the air, over Thorin's head, and buried Sting to the hilt in Bolg's chest. The orc roared, fell backwards into the mud. Bilbo did not stop there, however; he lifted Sting and plunged it again and again into Bolg's chest, until the orc no longer breathed, no longer moved. Then, shaking, Bilbo stood and resheathed his sword.

Thorin was staring at him. Whether he was amazed or just shocked Bilbo did not know. He did know that he had to get the injured king away from the battlefield. So he grabbed Thorin by the shoulder and somehow, even though he was sure he did not have the strength, lifted him over his own shoulder. He threw him over his shoulder, like Dwalin had to him once upon a time, and  _ran_  towards relative safety.

He didn't think he'd ever run so fast in his life.

Then he tripped and fell, and the fact that  _this_  was the moment his light hobbit feet decided to fail him was just too much of a blow. He screamed and pounded the ground, and looked up at the sky to demand why Eru had forsaken him.

And saw a beautiful sight.

Overhead the Eagles of Manwë flew, swooping into the fray. A cheer rose up from the battle field, dwarves and men and elves rejoicing as the reinforcements arrived and the orcs, goblins and wargs let out screams and squawks and howls of terror. They began a not so tactical retreat, realizing a lost cause when they saw one. The massive, black blur that was Beorn ran after them, striking from the ground as the eagles struck from above. The elves continued shooting arrows, the dwarves ran after, the men blocked the pass so they could not escape so easily.

Normally Bilbo would have wondered why they did not let them go, let the battle be over. But Bilbo then realized that, if he had not been protecting the King Under the Mountain from further injury, he would have been running after as well. He would not have stopped until every warg, orc, and goblin lay dead.

"Are you alright?" Thorin asked.

Bilbo looked at him incredulously. "Am I alright? Am  _I_ alright?" hysterically, he laughed. Then he grabbed Thorin by the hair and pulled him closer. " _Fuck_  Thorin. Don't…don't…Don't even  _ask that question._ "

Thorin chuckled, then winced and held a hand to his ribs. "I'm bruised and battered, but I think I'll be okay."

"Thank Eru."

Bilbo stared out over the battle field. Death, so much death. There would be no celebration. Thorin had his kingdom back…but at what cost?

"I'm sorry," Bilbo said finally, still panting, still out of breath. He felt like he would never get his breath back.

"So am I."

He lay down, in mud and blood and filth, and rested his head (Hair covered in mud and blood and filth) on Thorin's chest. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"You've been brave, my hobbit," Thorin whispered. He swept Bilbo's matted hair to the side. It would never be clean again, so tangled and soiled the fine strands were; they would have to cut it off. "So brave, Bilbo. And I've been a fool."

"You have been," Bilbo agreed. "But I forgive you…if you forgive me."

"I do."

It would be quite a while before someone found them. The battle was won. Bilbo lay beside his king.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! The original prompt was off the kink_meme, and was for Bilbo being carried by Thorin. However, I deviated from the original prompt quite a bit, and I seem to have lost the page, so I won't be able to post the exact prompt here.
> 
> I'm aware that some things are different from the book, not the least of which is Thorin's age and the length of time between Smaug's invasion and the quest. However, I took such liberties because I'm writing in movieverse and the ages listed are not compliant with the obvious ages in the movie; i.e., Thorin is not older than Balin and so forth.
> 
> Hopefully this wasn't too bad, as it's my first Hobbit piece. I hope you enjoyed.


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